tington's nephew, in fact--wants the
one quality which will make that kind of thing intolerable--that is,
high spirits. The Black Hussars of Maga both had them, and drank
them, frequently neat. I judge that the Nephew has to be more careful.
Eupepsy is not revealed in his writing; but Christopher North and his
co-mates must have had the stomachs of ostriches. The guzzling and
swilling which were the staple of the _Noctes_ were remarked upon at
the time as incredible as well as disgusting; but it is to be presumed
that they wouldn't have been there if, to the majority at least, they
had not been a counsel of perfection. "I wasn't as drunk as I should
have liked to be, your Worship, but I was drunk."

As well as that, most people thought it exceedingly funny. Dickens
and his readers thought it funny too. Christmas would not have been
Christmas unless somebody got beastly drunk. We have moved on since
then, and carried the Nephew with us, _multum gementem_. One can see
him kicking violently under the arm of the _Zeitgeist_ as he is borne
down the ringing grooves of change. Now, therefore, he is tart in his
musings, chastises rather with fleas than with scorpions.

When the _Noctes_ can stand away from Politics and Literature--for the
two were always involved in those days, so that unless you approved a
man's party you couldn't allow that he wrote tolerable verse--they can
wile away a winter evening very pleasantly. Christopher North had an
eye for character, a sense of humour, and knew and loved the country.
He was country bred. He is at his best when he combines his loves,
as he does in the person of the Shepherd. Keep the Shepherd off (_a_)
girls, (_b_) nursing mothers, (_c_) the Sabbath, (_d_) eating, (_e_)
drinking, (_f_) his own poetry, and he is good reading. Knowing and
loving Ettrick Forest as I do, I need no better guide to it than
North's Shepherd. Having fished all its waters from Loch Skene
downwards, I should ask no better company, evenings, at Tibbie
Shields' or the Tushielaw Inn. Edward FitzGerald could have made a
good book out of the _Noctes_, cutting it down to one volume out of
four. As it is mainly, it will stand or fall by its high spirits. The
really funny character in it is Gurney, the shorthand writer, who is
kept in a cupboard, and at the end of the last uproarious chapter,
when the coast is cleared of the horseplaying protagonists, "comes out
like a mouse, and begins to nibble cheese." That is im